Shadow Girl (9 page)

The whole café bursts into rapturous applause.

‘Well done, Sandra. You clearly know how to bring out the best in our pimply friend.'

Karadeg's hair and beard are fuming and sticking out at odd angles from his head. His potato nose has lost its potato-ness and looks for all intents and purposes like a carbonised pancake. He has the air of someone who has collided with a runaway train.

He raises a shaky hand, to check if he still has a head.

‘You had your kiss, good sir,' says Yaouen. ‘Now, if you please, three Choc Supremes. And this, I believe, is mine.' He grabs the vial. ‘Don't worry about the facial, by the way. It wears off in time.'

Twenty minutes later, all three of them are licking the last drops of Supreme off their lips, looking as close to satisfied tabbies as is humanly possible.

‘Divine,' says Jenny, pushing her mug to one side. ‘Don't know what Karadeg puts in this but it seems to improve every time I come here.'

‘And how many oftentimes would that be?' asks Sandra, fishing. ‘You never-in-all-forever told me about this drink-place. Or about your other hush-hush life.'

‘You wouldn't have been interested probably. You were too busy rising in the world.'

‘Well, licks like I've gotten all the elapse of day at this point.'

‘But we don't,' says Yaouen.

‘So we have time for the Supremes,' challenges Jenny, ‘but not for a friendly catch-up. Is that what you're saying?'

‘That is exactly what I'm saying. There is always time for chocolate, in whatever shape or degree of cocoa content. I don't think you'll disagree. Now, your tablet.'

He is holding out his hand.

‘My lord.'

My lord? Sandra wonders if her friend is being serious. She couldn't pick up any irony in her tone.

Before she can ponder this any further, the Paris nude is floating again in midair above their table. A finger snap, and the café lights dim to virtual obscurity. The Korrigans in the room have gone quiet, though one or two are finding it hard to keep their comments to themselves.

‘Take a gawp at that! Wish I could tell my missus to strike that kind of pose.'

‘You don't have a missus.'

‘That's beside the point.'

‘So what
is
your point?'

‘My point? My point is I can see myself taking an interest in art that's as big as those knockers.'

Yaouen clicks his tongue to quash the cheeky observations. Then, opening the vial, he pours some powder on his palm, brings his hand to his lips and blows softly. The powder rises in slow motion and begins to glow, and then to swirl around the nude like the gases of a nebula.

Some in the audience find it impossible to muzzle their enthusiasm and begin to oooo and aaaah and clap their hands.

As for Sandra, it is not clapping that she has a sudden urge for. Her demon has woken up, as in the hotel room, and begun anew to beg for pleasure.

The call is stronger this time, magnified maybe by the swirling starlight. So sharp it seems to be hollowing out her loins. Tugging at them like a platoon of moons at spring tide.

Her eyes, fixed upon the floating nude, follow the harmonious flow of the statue's arm.

She gets a shock. The fingers that were spread over the stomach have moved unequivocally to the crotch.
And
appear to be engaged in a slow massage.

In fact, the whole statue seems to have come alive. To have acquired a strange energy. It is breathing. Palpitating. Its colours have shifted to oily, fleshy tones.

Is this a trick of the light? Is her mind fooling with her? More magic, perhaps? She can't be the only one seeing this. Maybe this is Yaouen's doing — another of his stunts.

She stares at those fingers, fascinated. Incapable of severing her gaze. The nude is showing her the way. Promising instant gratification. The longing in her reaches alarm proportions. She has again begun to melt, heated to her core by those puzzling, imperious desires.

Oh God no, please no,
she begs. Why is this crazy need returning?

This is ridiculous, she chides herself. She has to resist this. Just this once. This really is not the time or place. Not when she is surrounded by a whole army of gnomes. Not with Jenny sitting next to her.

She tightens her grip on her empty mug but that pervasive want is not going away. Not remotely. Her creature is already fawning hard, exciting her. She tries closing her eyes to shut out the nude — to no effect: the image is etched on her brain in clear, compelling lines. She takes another look. Sees the woman tilt her head towards her. Sees her almond gaze seeking hers, finding hers. Exacting obedience — demanding a new, unquestioned surrender to the call.

Interrupting her caresses, the woman brings a finger to her lips. Then, her eyes holding Sandra in their spell, she sucks on it with lascivious abandon, infusing the act with more overtones than if this was a lover's candy stick. Her licking done, she returns to her fondling. And smiles. A provocative smile that sends Sandra's guts fluttering with yearning and her spine tingling with anticipation.

Sandra shifts on her chair. This is hopeless. She cannot stay like this, hanging over her hot cauldron. She must do something.

She looks around.. She can only make out vague shapes but concludes everyone's attention is engrossed by the nude and her orbiting stardust.

She is drawn back to the moving figure. To her bewitching eyes and her temptations. She tries tensing her abs a few times. Shit, this feels surprisingly good. She thinks of crossing her legs to squeeze a bit more. That would bring her some relief and no one would notice.

She decides to do just that. She locks her thighs together then begins contracting all those intricate muscles down there.

Delicious. Pussy-leaking good. Didn't she hear something once about some women getting off like that during workouts? Although that never happened to her.

She keeps squeezing.

She is now so absurdly aroused she could pop off at any moment.

But her creature wants more. It wants to be cajoled and stroked. It will not be fobbed off with a sleight-of-pelvis.

Perhaps . . . Perhaps she could slip a hand under the table. It is dark enough and no one would see. No one would know. It wouldn't take long. Just long enough to placate her demon, send it back to its lair with a pat on its back.

Around her, the Korrigans are still venting their approval but their cheers are filtered — almost muffled — by the mist of desire insulating her. Before she can think this through, her hand has dropped under the table. She quickly unzips her shorts and checks herself.

She is soaked, of course.

Oh God. Just a quick play then, to keep the beast at bay. No one will see. No one will know.

She begins to stroke with splayed fingers, gingerly at first, careful to keep her breathing low, though she guesses she can't be heard with the gnomes cheering.

She casts concerned glances in Jenny's direction. As far as she can tell, her friend is turned to the display. She needs more room to move her hand but her shorts are in the way. She wriggles on her seat to push them down her thighs, then resumes her finger-work.

She rubs on with greater zest, changing the pace and geography of her moves. Tries to bite back the first moans. Unsuccessfully. She seems to have acquired uncanny knowledge of how to extract essential delectation from herself. How to design the perfect pleasure curve.

Each wave of delight is stronger, and more compelling, than the last. Each rise of her chest ties her more securely to her fate. Soon, her hips are rolling, pitching in eager cadence with her hand.

Now and again she holds her breath, lips parted, eyes shut tight, in a half-hearted bid to hold back the flow. To keep the lid on her tidal urges. But the battle is lost, she knows, and each time the pleasure bursts through, sharp, merciless, sending her sprawling down slippery slopes of gasps that alter the tone and fibre of her moans.

Holy Munchkin! This is awesome, far too good for a clit job on the sly. She can't remember jilling off ever feeling so incredible.

Her demon thinks so too. It is all fired up, getting high on the vibes oozing through her fingers. Pleading shamelessly for a tough probe. Killing what resolve she has to keep her fun discreet.

Above her, the stardust is glowing more brightly and pulsing like a million heart cells. There are booming sounds, too, echoing across the room. Or maybe pounding in her head. Pounding. Confusing her.

The pulses and the sounds, her horny beast begging, the blood throbbing in her temples, the heat in her cheeks . . . All are merging, fuzzing her brain, spoiling her grasp on reality.

In her mind's eye, the wanton nude — her guide, her temptress — is getting busy. Busy blowing a man, swallowing him with relish. One hand fondling his balls. The other lending its skills to the velvet vice of her lips. Her lover is swaying to her rhythm, savouring each moment of the treat. Sandra watches, hollow with envy, but she cannot see his face. Just a shape, lean and muscular, radiating the musk and grit of power.

The man signals to her to kneel too, next to the nude, and she does so gladly, gratefully. She will serve him obediently. Faithfully. Will do his bidding.
All
his bidding. Kiss him. Blow him. Screw him. Lie for him. Cheat for him. Prostrate and debase herself for him.

And gladly, gratefully, she adds her own velvet touch to the nude's. Takes over the task of pleasuring this man. Of sucking him. This lord. This master. He tastes vibrant, and soft, and hard, and dark, and intoxicating all at once. She can smell the raw heat of his desire. She is already drunk on his scent.

He wraps a strong hand around her head and pulls her in, drowning her further in his flavour. She submits to his needs, to her demon's pull, and pumps him slowly, teasing his balls as the nude had done.

Oh God. Her clit is about to burst. There are fingers busying themselves there. Not hers, and not the man's, who is looming over her, a firm grip on her head. She looks sideways and catches the nude's wicked smile. Catches the dusky mischief in her eyes. The mystery woman is playing with her. Milking her for pleasure.

Sandra's eyes widen in surprise at this twist in her fantasy. But there is no time to think. She is responding with fervour to this fresh demand. This is too good, too abominably addictive. Her demon leaves her no wiggle room. She is choking on her moans, thinking of the woman's soft, cheeky fingers on her bud, squeezing delight out of her like a magic elixir. Without warning, the man explodes in her mouth and she gags on this too. On her master's pleasure.

She swallows everything. Gratefully. Obediently.

She opens her eyes, desperate to indulge her impulses to the full. The steamy phantoms are preying on her, multiplying her pounding pleasure. She marvels at how readily, how fast her thoughts answer the magnet call of submission. At how much satisfaction she derives from the idea of being enjoyed. Dominated. Manipulated. Somehow nothing else will do, she senses. Nothing else will satisfy her.

She takes another glance around her, then briskly pushes her shorts past her knees. She parts her legs and the hot pants drop to her ankles but this is the least of her concerns. Then, still working her clit with urgent strokes, she plunges two fingers into herself.

As she succumbs with beatific emotions to the craving, the stardust unfurls to reach across the room. It eddies for a while near the menu board on the wall and, dancing like an aurora in a polar sky, begins to conjure — from the bottom up — a tall oblong shape from a world beyond. Soon, the coruscated form looms high above the café tables.

The Korrigans are going wild.

But Sandra is oblivious to their cheers or the beauty unfolding in midair. The wet lips of her demon have locked on her fingers to suck with undisguised greed. Her breathing has gone rogue. She is gasping and twanging hard — harsh sounds broken by the music of her moans.

Christ. Is she being heard? She hopes to God she is not but does not have the strength to stop. She never did.

Disjointed images of carnal subjection flash through her brain — visions of being spanked, tied, eaten, arse-fucked and cowed by male desire; visions of the temptress kissing her, tonguing her, fingering her like a doll till she erupts in gratitude.

As the waves of cheers come crashing around her, she bites her lip to freeze another groan in her throat, stop another laboured noise. But her creature's lips keep sucking, warping her mind, and the moans burst out of her again.

She throws back her head, chest pumping. A feverish hand sweeps under her skimpy top to knead her breasts. Then she snaps back forward, shoulders hunched, and strains to see through clouded eyes into the gloom below — as if peering into her damp sanctum could make her understand, could help her fathom the magnitude of her hunger.

And perhaps break the spell.

She thinks weakly of pulling away but the creature has coiled itself around her hand, around her arm, to keep her firmly snared in its mouth. This is crazy. She must be going crazy. But she has to keep going. Keep going. She cannot stem those mad urges. Cannot stop her hips rolling. Her moans spilling. Her fingers fattening her demon folds.

She goes in deep and hard, drowning herself into the beast.

Then slumps back in her seat, torn by another bout of perverse emotions. Lips wide apart, begging for air. Face flushed, hand enslaved by the sucking demon. Knees twitching against the table, jolted by spikes of pleasure.

The booming is clouding her brain.

She begins to cry tears of joy. The demon's tentacles have coiled up her arm, numbing her with delight; wringing spurts of helpless sounds from her lips.

Oh Christ, oh Christ, this is too good. She will explode. She can't keep quiet. She just can't. She has to feed the beast, nourish its boundless greed. The hot, prurient images in her head weave in and out of each other like kaleidoscopic fragments. She is spanked. Cowed. Bound. Fucked. Tongued. Brought to countless orgasms. On a bed. At the office. Outside the office. Against a wall. By a lover. By a temptress. By one master. By two masters.

Her fingers are pumping with a vengeance. Her moans rise in an unstoppable crescendo.

Around her, the gnomes are oooing and aaahing loudly, cheering at the pulsing stardust. At the ovals being spawned from obscurity. There is lightning too, flashing over the oblong shapes, streaking the skies above her. And a heavy rumbling sound unfurling from nowhere.

But she does not see the light or the rows of objects receding beyond the café wall. She does not hear the cheers or the low growl of the nebula.